An Englishman's Home is His Castle
by JuniperGentle
Summary: The Tower of London - palace, prison, fortress, home. Throughout England's history it has been all of these things, and more. Now he only visits occasionally, but there are still those who will welcome him back, however faded their existence. Concerning the Tower of London, the oldest on-going ceremony in the world and some friends of England's that nobody else will ever see...


_Birthday present fic for my lovely friend Punmaster Extrodinaire, who very kindly gave me permission to publish this, and who also made me love the personification of my country even more than I did already in her stories by making him a) utterly awesome and b) absolutely mental. If you've never read her stuff, go and read it, because she's got England in (pretty much) all his forms down to a T. Or tea, I suppose...  
_

_I don't own Hetalia, and I certainly don't own the Tower of London.  
_

* * *

**An Englishman's Home is His Castle**

It was cold, it was raining, and it was the middle of summer. None of this was particularly surprising, considering that this was London.

Dodging as a taxi sent a wave of water up over the pavement, England squinted through the sheeting rain across the Thames to his destination. Around him, Londoners scurried to and fro, umbrellas and briefcases held over their heads to shield them from the weather. None of them looked up enough to spot their very own nation ghosting in between them, too occupied with the thought of getting home and putting the kettle on.

The massive Tower Bridge was surprisingly empty of tourists as he crossed it, tugging his coat closer around himself. The rain had clearly driven them to find more indoor pursuits, and it was getting late as well, about twenty to ten.

It loomed out of the grim clouds on the other side of the bridge, walls heavy and forbidding in the wet. It had been begun right back at the beginning of the Norman Invasion, built to hold the royal family, the prisoners of state, and to terrify the local Londoners into acknowledging the sheer power and majesty of their lords and masters, the monarchs. It had seen over one hundred and twenty five executions, including three queens, and many hundreds more had met their deaths in the dungeons beneath, or the tower above. Torture and death lived side by side with pomp and regalia, and the luxuries of a royal life.

It was, of course, the Tower of London.

The Tower had been England's heart of hearts for centuries. He'd seen every side of it – lived in it in the lap of luxury in its role as a palace, patrolled its fortress walls, starved in it as a prisoner (that had been interesting). In a way, it felt more like home than his house on the outskirts of London, and he made sure to visit whenever he could.

Fingering the set of heavy iron keys in his pocket, he exchanged a salute with the Yeoman Warder who stood outside the gates, privately admiring the man's rather magnificent red and black uniform. He'd never had a chance to wear it himself, annoyingly, but he had to admit, it was one of the better-looking uniforms. Then again, he smiled to himself, it was ceremonial. His people were _very_ good with ceremonial.

The Chief Yeoman Warder, the person in charge of the tower, entered the gatehouse and smiled when he spotted England.

"You're staying with us tonight, my lord?"

"Only until three. I'm meant to be at a meeting in Greece tomorrow morning and my flight leaves at five."

The man, resplendent in his all-red regalia in preparation for the Ceremony of the Keys, nodded. "I trust you know the way to the White Tower, my lord."

England's eyes seemed almost to glow in the dusk. "I _built_ it, Chief Warder."

Ignoring the man's shudder – a reaction often incited when the few people who knew who he really was realised just how old he was compared to them – England strode into the Inner Courtyard, offering only a short nod to the people gathered to watch the Ceremony. The Bloody Tower loomed high above him, and the sentry at the gate tried to halt him before recognising the badge he wore and hurriedly giving way.

The rain still hadn't relented, and England could only just make out the shimmering outline of the White Tower in the very middle of the castle. Dashing across the final courtyard, he let himself in through the heavy door and shook the water out of his hair, leaving the door ajar for the moment. Now he just had to wait for a few minutes for the Ceremony of the Keys to be completed and for everyone to go to bed, and then he could get on with what he needed to do.

However, two of those he had come to visit clearly decided that there was no point them waiting for the public to disappear. A pair of ravens suddenly swung out of the night and through the open door, beady eyes shining as they spotted the blonde-haired nation. England sighed as they fluttered into the air and landed on either shoulder, shaking dripping feathers as they did.

"You two are completely spoiled, you know," he muttered, reaching up to stroke the glossy heads. "What's your Ravenmaster going to say to me?"

"Good morning!" croaked the raven on his left shoulder, very loudly, heralding another sigh from England. Whoever had taught Thor to imitate the human voice clearly hadn't thought things through, though at least it amused visiting dignitaries, especially Russian ones for some reason. Something in England rebelled at the idea of his magnificent ravens being used as performing parrots when they were so important to the realm. After all, didn't the legend say "_less than six ravens at the Tower and Britain shall fall"_? England was very attached to his Tower Ravens.

The raven on his right shoulder, Munin, preened her murderous beak through his hair, making a strange, soft cawing noise. He shushed her gently, and offered her a piece of chicken he'd kept wrapped in his pocket from dinner. She keened happily and snapped it up.

"_God preserve Queen Elizabeth!"_ England suddenly heard from outside, marking the end of the Ceremony of the Keys, and as the first note of the Last Post and the first chime of the ten o'clock bell sounded as one, he felt a thrill run up his spine as he did every time he heard it. It was a ceremony, yes, but it was also a celebration – and a memorial.

Munin poked him in the ear, breaking the moment, and he laughed, rubbing her head as he gave her another piece of chicken. The Ceremony was over now, and the visitors were being ushered out of the gate as the remaining guards headed for their beds. Now England was finally free to wander around as he wished.

Thor took off with a rustle of soft feathers as England made his way up the steps of the Tower, and swept back into the night, presumably back to his roost, but Munin remained perched on his shoulder, nibbling absently at the top of his ear. He halted on the second landing, looking around, senses alert. "Where are you?" he called softly. "I know you're here."

"You came." The voice sounded unutterably bored as it echoed out of thin air. "What is it now?"

England bowed. "My lady."

"Don't _My lady_ me, England," snapped the voice, slowly materialising on other other side of the room at the bottom of the Tower. "I know you want something, you always do."

"Are the Jewels safe?"

She sighed. It sounded like wind through a badly-fastened window. "Of course. You know that we guard them even better than the humans do."

"How many attempts this year?"

"Only two. We alerted the Warders, they picked them up from the moat and threw them out, end of story."

England nodded, relaxing a little. This was one of the things he always had to check; how many people had tried to break into the heart of the old kingdom. Many people attempted to sneak into the ancient castle after dark, reckoning that as everything had been locked up and the guards had gone to bed, it would be easy pickings. Unfortunately for them, it wasn't just the living that guarded the Tower.

Lady Catherine of Aragon frowned as she looked England up and down. "You don't look well," she snapped, folding her arms. "Are those Parliament people still giving you all that paperwork to fill out?"

He was shocked into a laugh. "Of course they are. I sometimes wonder how many ships I could build with the trees they must cut down for paper."

"Economy still bad?" She stepped closer, raising one hand to place on his forehead. He knew not to flinch, or she would vanish in a huff, but it was difficult to stay still when her hand was so cold, and didn't quite feel solid enough to exist. "Hmm. Not as bad as it was, I see. You need to take more care of yourself."

"_Si_, _mama,_" he sighed, trying very hard not to smile. Catherine, Princess of Spain and first wife of King Henry VIII, had decided about a century after her death that she was going to take up residence in the Tower so that she could be closer to England, who she mothered relentlessly, apparently trying to make up for the pain caused by the reign of her only surviving child.

"Don't speak Spanish," she scolded. "I know you're trying to humour me, but your accent is terrible."

"Alright!" He couldn't hide his smile this time. "Is there anything else you need to report?"

She shook her head, automatically putting up a hand to adjust her headdress. "Must you always be so official, England?"

"You never appear unless I am. You don't even let the visitors see you."

She made a noise that wasn't quite ladylike, and stuck her nose in the air. "Who wants humans to be staring at them all day – apart from Guido, of course."

England grinned involuntarily. "Did he enjoy the display this year? I thought it was very impressive."

She actually tried to push him. "You are very cruel, England. He sulks for a week before the fifth, and sometimes it's nearly the end of November before he'll talk to us again."

"Well, he was the one who tried to blow up my Parliament," England pointed out, and Catherine hid what looked rather like a smile behind her hand. Then suddenly her eyes went blank and her expression changed.

"Harry wants to speak to you," she said woodenly. "He's up at the top."

"What does he want?" England asked, puzzled. It was very rare for him to see the ghost of King Henry VI, who tended to only appear around the time when he was killed. If he was asking to see England, that meant it was something very important.

"He won't tell me," Catherine sighed. "Go on, go and talk to him. You'll come back to the Tower soon enough, I know what you're like."

"Yes, my lady."

"And tell Spain he needs to get his act together."

"I will, my lady," he answered with a bow.

"What did I say about calling me _My lady,_ England?" she scolded, but by the time he looked up, she had vanished.

England moved on up the stairs, feeling rather than seeing the hundreds of years of history embedded in the very air of the place. So many had died here. Most of the ghosts were missing their heads, and not all of them were especially friendly – after all, the vast majority had been prisoners of the state, spies and those accused of treason. Out of the corner of his eye, England saw his fierce, silver unicorn pinning a particularly persistent one to the wall to allow England to pass. It looked like it was Sir Walter Raleigh, which was odd, but then again the unicorn had a rather hair-trigger temper when it came to ghosts bothering him.

At the very top of the tower, he found the King. He was much paler, more translucent, than Lady Catherine had been, and he was far less vocal.

"Lord England," the ghost said, his voice like faded velvet. "So you came after all."

"Why should I not?"

He thought that the ghost had smiled. "Is it not the way of the world? You serve us in life; we serve you in death. I am merely a guard of the Tower now, not your King. I cannot order you to appear before me as I once could."

England's eyes sharpened. "You guard more than the Tower, and you know it. Just because I haven't called on you in years doesn't mean I won't." At the expression on the man's face he continued, "Once a King of England, always a King. You still have a duty to me."

"Then I shall endeavour to serve you better in death than I did in life."

England frowned. "This isn't why you called me here."

If ghosts could look embarrassed, King Henry's ghost was. "Even though I hurt him so badly, may I ask something of the country I love?" It was a formal phrasing, but sincere.

"Speak."

"Would you help the Princes?"

For a moment, England hesitated, shocked. "Help the Princes? Why would you ask that?"

King Henry reached out and placed an ice-cold finger on England's lips. "Shh. Listen."

It only took England a moment to work out what the ghost was talking about. The soft sound of sobbing drifted up from the stairwell, but not a sound that ordinary humans would be able to hear.

"I can't bring myself to speak to them," King Henry said quietly. "Even though I want to. They are the children of the man who usurped me, and still I want to speak to them, comfort them. They're always so sad, so very sad. I think they only see you now."

England nodded silently and looked out of the window, across the courtyard. "What did you want to say to them?"

King Henry hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "You know them better than I do, England." For a long moment, he held England's gaze. "Take care of them," he said at last, and then faded away into the cold stone.

Slowly blowing out a breath that frosted in the air, England turned to descend the steps of the Tower once more. Though part of him hated that this ghost – or rather _these_ ghosts – existed, they were still his favourites, however tragic their story was.

Unusually, it was the youngest one he spotted first, sitting at the bottom of the stairs, his golden head buried in his hands as he sobbed hopelessly in fear.

"Richard?" England called softly. "Come on, lad, I'm here now..."

The boy's head shot up in alarm and for a moment he stared at England in frozen shock. Then, with a wail, he flew up the steps straight into the arms of the nation that he had never quite led.

Munin took off with an annoyed caw, giving England's hair a vicious tug as she swept past him out of the arrow-slit in the wall. But he ignored her, in favour of the boy now clinging to him.

Richard, the eternally nine-year-old Duke of York, was amazingly solid, though he was just as cold as the others. After hours and hours of thinking, England had decided that it was because he was still so young and had clung so stubbornly to life that he had lost very little of himself in death. But it was nice, in a way, because it wasn't every day that England got an armful of small, sobbing ghost-prince.

Or two – clearly his brother's cry had brought the elder out of hiding, and now England found himself being hugged around the waist by a distraught boy who had been twelve for just over half a millennia.

"Hey, shh, shh," he murmured, just as he always did, ruffling the hair of the boy who had only been his King for a little over a month. The two Princes of the Tower clung to him as he manoeuvred to sit on the steps where Richard had been, pulling them closer. "Come on, it hasn't been that long since I arrived, has it? You must have only materialised... what, half an hour ago?"

King Edward V shook his head mutely, wrapping his cold arms around England's shoulders, golden curls sticking slightly to his cold, damp face. His ten-year-old brother looked up into England's eyes, cheeks coated in a film of silvery tears.

"We got scared up there all alone," he whispered. "Are you sure there aren't ghosts here?"

Rather than think about the conundrum of ghost-ghosts, England just shook his head. "If there are, they won't hurt you," he said finally. "I'm here."

He didn't blame the Princes for being so frightened. The Tower held its terrors even for a nation like him, with thousands of years of experience and the strength to fight off any of the more malevolent spirits. They had been just children when they had died, betrayed by the man they had thought was going to care for them, and were still children now, as alone and afraid as they had been on the night of their death. They had lost father, land, friends and comrades within a month, and then their lives shortly after that, just as the War of the Roses reached its height. Part of him would never quite forgive that he had been so occupied with the savagery of the War that he didn't even notice the death of his own leader and his brother.

And, though he would deny it ferociously until the end of time, their eyes were as blue in death as they had been in life – and such a familiar blue.

.

The great bells of London ran through the Westminster Chimes, just as they had every night for centuries. Two o'clock.

England stifled a yawn and hoped that the plane to Greece would be empty enough – or at least quiet enough – for him to catch a few hours of sleep before arriving. Then again, Greece spent most of his time asleep, so maybe it wouldn't make too much difference.

He was standing on Tower Bridge, looking down at the Thames and listening on every wavelength to the heartbeat of his capital. Most of the clubs were still open, his youth dancing and drinking the night away, just as his sailors had when he had still been ruler of the Seven Seas, just as his monarchs and nobility had done when he was a rich, powerful empire, just as all his people had done through all their history. Not much had changed in a thousand years, really, except the fashions, and how late the children were allowed to stay out.

The Tower stood, ancient and strong, behind him, older than anything else in the city except him. It remembered those days too.

Secrets had been whispered within those walls, political intrigues discussed and won – or lost – between the men and women who had lived there, love, power, pomp, splendour, war, torture, pain, death; every emotion known to man seeped through the very air of the place. He let so many visit, but so few see. After all, it had been there throughout so much of his history – the walls almost dripped with it.

Allowing someone into the Tower was allowing them into his heart, the very heart of England. It was up to them what they saw there. Some only saw old, tired stone, sulking on the edge of a sluggish river, out of date and out of touch. But others saw the magic and the splendour, saw the pride as well as the ghosts, the living, breathing history that grew stronger with every passing year, and every aching scar.

* * *

_Apart from Lady Catherine, all of these ghosts reportedly haunt the Tower of London, along with some others who I didn't mention because this was getting very long._

_Yes, England has adopted the Princes (who technically aren't princes, but a King and a Duke, but they're young so we call them the Princes). To him, I expect they look like colonies, immortally children and immortally terrified of the one who promised to look after them and keep them safe who then quite possibly murdered them._

_And, as Doctor Who puts it so beautifully: "What if you were really old, and really kind and alone? If you were that old and that kind... you couldn't just stand there and watch children cry."_

_So England has no colonies left... but he still has the little ones to look after._

_On a vaguely interesting note, that I may develop in a later fic, the Princes died one hundred years almost to the day before the English claimed their first foothold in America..._

_The ravens are real, and the one called Thor really can imitate the human voice well enough to say "Good morning!". He even said it to Vladimir Putin when he visited the Tower – I bet Russia was delighted. Legend says that Britain will fall if the ravens ever leave the Tower, and so they are protected by law. One story claims that during World War II, four of the six were killed and one kidnapped by the Germans (this has never been proved, though), but one remained alive and safe all the way through, and therefore we were okay._

_The ravens have the lifting feathers on one wing clipped so that they can't stray too far. It doesn't hurt, and they can still fly, but they just stay close because it unbalances them._


End file.
